“You’ve got a hot girlfriend, mijo, remember? You told me that if you ever looked at another woman again to please just shoot you,” said Buzz. “Or was I supposed to call Yumi Nakamura in D.C. before I pulled the trigger?” Nakamura was a Japanese American lawyer for the DEA whom Angel had been seeing for over a year.
“Buzz, I’m a seventh son of a seventh son!”
“Meaning?”
“I’m not sure, but it should be worth something. So please cut me some slack.”
Buzz chuckled to himself. He was almost as proud of Angel Perez as he was his own kids. Angel was a self-made man who grew up in extreme poverty in Puerto Rico. At age three he was taking things apart to see how they worked. At age five he was building his own toy tanks and jeeps from scrap metal. The United States Army gave Angel a more formal education, and he’d been repaying them with his blood and loyalty ever since.
“Angel, forget about the eye candy. What do you have for me?”
“First of all, it would seem that none of my goodies have been discovered.” The “goodies” Angel referred to were small, easily concealable smoke bombs that had sticky tape on one side. A slick operator could easily attach such a device to most surfaces. When detonated, it made a sharp report, then released an enormous amount of colorful smoke for its small size. This morning, when large crowds were arriving from Asia, Angel had donned a blond wig and a facial prosthetic that defeated facial recognition software. He stealthily planted dozens of the mini smoke bombs, set to detonate remotely, under chairs, tables, sinks in the men’s room, and elsewhere. That the devices hadn’t been found was testament to the fact that cleaning people don’t look under things.
“Good,” said Buzz. “What else?”
“The two bruisers standing together by the arrivals board have to be cops.”
Buzz casually clocked the two men. He didn’t know it, but the bigger Asian one was San Bernardino County Sheriff’s Detective Bobby Chan.
“Detectives investigating the Chino Hills shoot-out?” asked Buzz.
“That would make sense. Kit’s neighbor told the cops he was flying in today, remember? They probably want to talk to him real bad,” said Angel.
“But he doesn’t want to talk to them, just yet.”
“I also made a deuce in black leather jackets. Sitting over by the low wall. Russians, without a doubt. Where do they get their taste in shirts, anyway?”
“Maybe they watched Goodfellas too many times.” Buzz casually glanced toward the men. “Got ’em. Which means we have a quartet. Might be too far for you to see, but check the pair over my shoulder, far back corner of this poor excuse for a café behind me.”
Angel, who wore jeans, sneakers, and a loose-fitting brown shirt, seemed to casually glance at the second pair of men while still holding the phone to his ear.
“So four mob guys and two deputies, plus airport police and all the cameras. Plus maybe more mobsters in a van or SUV in the parking structure or circling the airport. In other words, no problem.”
Buzz considered the layout for a moment. “I’ll slow down the two behind me. You delay the leather jackets. The deputies are the wild card.”
The longest part of the customs-clearing process was the last check after you got your bags, which was really no check at all. Since his body was still on Moscow time and he hadn’t slept on the plane, hadn’t slept at all since he heard of his mother’s death, by all rights Bennings should be exhausted.
But the adrenaline kicked in as he started to lead Yulana up the ramp into the arrivals hall, because he knew what was coming. He pulled out his U.S. cell phone and called Angel. It was 3:37 in the afternoon, Pacific time.
Angel answered his cell without saying hello. “Boss, welcome home. We are a go and can handle the Russkie greeting committee, but there are two big county-mounties, plainclothes, that might be here looking for you.”
“Understood. Stand by,” said Kit into the phone.
Yulana had only brought one rolling suitcase, and Kit took it from her and hefted it by the handle. Before she could say anything, he said, “Take off your shoes.”
“What?!”
He drilled her with one of his stares. “Take off your shoes and do exactly as I say.”
She stared at him for a few seconds, then took off her heels and held on to them. They walked farther up the ramp, slowly, being passed by throngs of Russian citizens hurrying to begin their Southern California vacations.
“On my mark… five, four…” said Kit slowly into the cell phone.
As Kit’s eye level came even with the floor level of the arrivals hall, he saw scores—check that—hundreds of people waiting to meet friends or loved ones.
“Three… two…”
He locked eyes with Buzz Van Wyke. Now it would be a race.
“One… zero!” said Kit into the phone.
He quickly pocketed the cell and grabbed Yulana’s arm as small bangs sounding like gunfire began echoing throughout the hall. Screams rang out; Kit saw the airport cop at the high desk leap to his feet, looking confused. Then all hell broke loose and the hall quickly filled with colorful smoke.
“Run!” shouted Kit to Yulana, pulling her along. But she resisted. “Run with me or I’ll kill you where you stand!”
She looked frightened, perhaps as much from the pandemonium as from Kit’s grasp on her arm and his intimidating eyes. So they ran together right into the mass of panicked, smoky confusion, barely able to see.
CHAPTER 14
Several of Angel’s smoke bombs had gone off right under the seats of the Russian thugs sitting by the low wall. As the men stood, they were enveloped by smoke but started to calmly move toward the ramp. Until Angel blocked the way. He held an ASP collapsible steel baton and with more than a little relish, thrust the unopened unit into the first thug’s solar plexus. He assumed these men took part in the carnage at the Bennings family home, and hoped he’d have a chance to do more than just hit them with a baton.
“Vete pa’l carajo so cabrón!” said Angel. Go to hell!
He then swung right as hard as he could and caught the second man in the neck. They both went down, and Angel scrambled away in a green-yellow-pink haze.
Angel bolted to the other side of the hall, to give Buzz backup. Angel’s father had died shortly after he was born, and Buzz had become something of a father figure to him. It blew Angel’s mind that Van Wyke still lived in the large home in Kennsington, Maryland, where he’d raised his three kids. As a widower, Buzz lived alone in that house, but maintained it was full of nothing but good, happy memories, and that he’d never move. Angel had visited Buzz there often. As much as he respected him, Angel was worried about how his older friend would fare with two Russian bears.
He spotted Buzz through the smoky air just as he slammed his luggage cart hard into one man, tumbling the Russian ass-over-teakettle. Buzz then grabbed the startled second guy’s left arm and lifted it, then punched hard with an Alpha Hornet compliance tool into the man’s armpit. The Russian thug screamed and staggered backward, disappearing in the smoke.
Angel nodded approvingly from about ten feet away, then turned and ran in the other direction.
A shrill alarm added to the mayhem in the arrivals hall. Kit led Yulana as fast as he could away from the closest exit, which was jammed with panicked, screaming, choking hordes running for their lives, trying to get out… but not without all of their luggage, thank you very much.
Kit angled for the northern exit, where fewer people usually congregated. From the corner of his eye he saw a big Asian guy moving fast for a man of his size, bearing down on him from his right side. He pegged him for being one of the county detectives, and since Kit didn’t want to fight a cop, this would come down to being a footrace, after all.